


Purple Swollen

by Lagerstatte



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Bad Ending, Body Horror, Broodmare to monsters, Drabble Sequence, Eggpreg, Eye Trauma, Inflation, Mad Scientists, Other, Oviposition, Tentacle Rape
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-04
Updated: 2019-09-04
Packaged: 2020-10-06 17:44:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20510972
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lagerstatte/pseuds/Lagerstatte
Summary: Ignis is taken and filled with eggs.





	Purple Swollen

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Melokho](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Melokho/gifts).

> Please enjoy :D

“He has exceptional resistance to magic,” the man says. “It should help keep him alive.”

He’s strapped down to begin with, but soon there’s no need. Tentacles wrap around Ignis’ arms and legs, suspending him in mid-air, and no matter how hard he struggles, he can’t escape. He is cut off from the armiger, overpowered.

He can’t tell how big the first tentacle that pushes into him is, worming its way between his legs, but it feels agonisingly large. The size of his wrist, perhaps. Blood runs down his leg, and the man wipes it away and applies a potion.

\- - - -

The tentacle moves in rough bursts, shoving inside him like its trying to force its way straight up into his chest. Perhaps it is, Ignis thinks, dizzy with primitive fear and horror, as it goes in and in and in and in. He can feel it deep inside himself. Too deep — his lower stomach bulges out with the force of its thrusts. It hurts.

“Please stop,” he begs, turning his head to try and look towards the man who’d put him here. “Take it out.”

“Sorry,” the man says. “No can do.” He sounds cheerful and only a little apologetic.

\- - - -

“It’s coming up to forty-eight hours,” the man says. Ignis’ head lolls on his chest. Has it really? “How’re you feeling?”

Ignis doesn’t reply. His head hurts from retching. His stomach hurts, agonisingly so, and he can feel the way his skin is stretched, his organs all rearranged to make room for the thick weight of the tentacle sitting heavy inside him. He feels like a water balloon that’s been filled too far. It’s a struggle to breathe. The tentacle is still now, at least, but every small movement he makes pulls at it where it’s stretching out his hole.

\- - - -

Ignis wakes when something cold and wet touches his face. He jerks back, but the thing — things — follow. They’re wire-thin but surprisingly strong.

“Just relax,” the man says. “The eggs’ll need to be fertilised.”

Ignis clamps his mouth shut, but the tentacles just go up his nose. Some go down his throat, and others squirm up into his sinuses, behind his face.

“Stop, please — _please_—”

A swarm of tentacles push into his open mouth. One of the ones in his sinuses presses up and up, until it pokes, wet and wriggling, out of the tear duct of his ruined eye.

\- - - -

“Look how elastic he’s become,” Ignis can hear someone say. They sound approving. There’s a moment when he feels something on his inner thigh, then something tracing the rim of his sore, swollen hole. A hand. Fingers push into him, around the tentacle, and stretch him wipe open and gaping.

“The eggs are about that size,” the man says. “It’s his pubis I’m more worried about. Perhaps we should break it now.”

“Snap it at the pubic syphysis? Do you think that’s necessary?”

“I’ll keep an eye on it when the first egg comes,” the man says.

\- - - -

The first egg comes slowly and excruciatingly, and as it moves into him Ignis can feel a crunch and snap deep and low inside him. He screams around the tentacles in his mouth, which squirm, from mouth to his stomach. The tentacle in his tear duct has pushed between his eyelids and is curled tight around his eyeball, and it wriggles with the rest of them.

At some point he’d been repositioned face down. His belly hangs below him, swollen obscenely, and the egg is forced into it, a bowling ball into a bag stuffed with wet rags. He feels his body stretch.

\- - - -

His breath comes in pants. He can’t breathe any deeper. There are five eggs inside him, and now the tentacles are pumping him full of fluid.

The first egg has settled inside his chest, bowing out his ribs. His tongue lolls out of his mouth, dripping saliva and salty fluid down the length of the tentacles. His legs twitch occasionally. His hands and arms are free now to feel the bloated ruin of his body, distended and in agony.

The tip of the sixth egg nudges up to his body and begins pushing into the slack gape of his hole.

\- - - -

The tentacles withdraw, but eight eggs remain.

“Good job,” the man says, and pats Ignis on the belly. His hand moves to Ignis’ chest to tug at a nipple, squeezing and pulling. “The incubation period is six months on average. They’ll need milk for nine after that, so that gives you three months between broods.

“Eight is very respectable for a first-timer,” the man says. “In a few years, maybe you’ll be up to a dozen.”

Ignis is in too much pain to respond. He thinks he is in too much pain to breathe, but he can’t manage to stop.


End file.
